Disconnect the Dots
by ScottIsInBolivia
Summary: The real reason behind Hank's obvious disregard of his father has a lot less to do with him, and a lot more to do with what happened to Evan.
1. Chapter 1

He had to walk away. Hank _had_ to. Couldn't stand looking into those baby blues and seeing his own wide-eyed browns reflecting back at him. Made him almost physically ill...and that was saying something.

Hank didn't necessarily mean to get into such a heated _almost_ argument with his baby brother, really, he didn't. It's just that, well, Evan was acting like a fucking idiot – like he didn't graduate MIT with honors.

"_At some point, you're going to have to forgive him." _

The doctor had to bite back the frustrated half-scream that threatened to rip through his throat at that comment. As fucking if. It's like Evan didn't get it... or didn't want to.

But here's the thing; Evan doesn't _know_ exactly why Hank won't forgive Eddie Lawson. Hank doubts he ever will. Sure, the guy walked out of the brothers' lives just as their mother was dieing, and that's horrible enough in itself. And, yeah, Eddie did cause HankMed to drown in the financial shitter for a good week. These are the things that most people, Evan included, assume to be the reason for Hank's obvious abhorrence towards the older man.

Most people, Evan included, don't know how wrong they are.

It happened when Hank was younger – too young to understand the reason, but old enough to understand the wrongness of the situation. Evan was seven at the time, almost eight, starry-eyed and completely naïve, trusting his _father_ with without a hint of doubt. Why would he? The big, bad, yet kind superhero of a man had never given a reason for mistrust before; and that was reason enough in the much, much younger Evan's mind frame to go through the motions.

Hank didn't mean to, honestly, he didn't, but, now that he thinks about it, he's more than damned glad he did. He'd woken up, sleepy-eyed and groggy, his throat demanding some sort of liquid and his bladder practically begging for release. _Bathroom first_, he'd decided, because, well, as much as he hated to admit it at the time, pissing himself was a definitely possibility.

It was on his dangerous journey through the darkened halls to the bathroom when Hank heard something just plain weird coming from his little brother's bedroom. Evan had been known to have these spontaneous nightmares or phobias about ridiculous things since he started sleeping in his own room, even before their mother got sick, so Hank, being the protective, responsible brother that he was, decided to investigate.

What he heard would be the inevitable reason for his absolute hatred towards their _father._

There were these odd, muffled words coming from a gravely, baritone voice, coupled with muted mumbles and whimpers that had to have belonged to Evan. As Hank stepped further towards his brother's room, he could hear some things with a more definitive fluctuation. Actual words. Words like_ good,_ and _don't tell,_ and _secret, pinky promise?_ Shit that made his gut seize up even in the present day.

Looking down, young Hank couldn't see any light slipping through the cracks of the door frame, so he chanced pressing his ear against the wood work, only to hear Evan sniffle as if he were wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt like he usually did. _Are you mad at me?_

_No, you did good, Super Evan. Real good._

As Eddie's voice grew closer to the door, Hank was caught between staying to see just what the fuck had happened, or running away to evade a reprimand for eaves dropping. And, really, if Evan was getting scolded for doing something bad, then that was on him, and Hank really didn't need to stick around for it, but there was something just niggling at the back of his brain, telling him that things definitely not okay, and that it didn't _have_ to be on Evan.

Hank could practically feel his father's footsteps a few feet away from the door, and he was just about to knock and ask if everything was okay... but then he heard Evan.

_It hurts._

But Eddie had been in the process of opening the door when his brother spoke, and the three Lawson men were caught in a tension-filled silence, full of stares, glances, and a spluttering Eddie.

_Evan... _Hank had called out to his brother, trying to duck and twist his body to see around his father's much larger frame.

He had barely managed to catch the reflecting sheen off Evan's big, blue eyes before his father had stepped into his line of vision...again.

_Just a nightmare._ Eddie had told him with enough authority and conviction to stamp down any twelve year old's ambition. _Night Evan._ And then he had walked into the hallway, and shut the door behind him, staring at his eldest son until Hank had said something about a bathroom and disappeared into the dark house.

It wasn't until the next morning during breakfast, after Evan had excused himself to get ready for school, that Hank set his utensils down in a quiet fury, and stared his father in the eyes.

All he had said was a venom-laced, _I know_, and that was all that needed to be said. The next day, Eddie disappeared. That same day, Hank tried to talk to Evan about what had happened two nights prior while simultaneously trying to console him with the absence of their father.

Evan, apparently, didn't remember, and Hank didn't buy it. Not at first, at least. But the more he pestered and poked and demanded, the more his younger brother would vehemently deny anything, saying he didn't know what Hank was talking about, and why was their dad gone.

Which brings him to the present day. To the argument. The one Hank had to physically remove himself from, in fear of actually smacking his brother.

He's standing just outside the kitchen, his back turned to what he fucking _knows_ is Evan's dejected expression. Yeah, he's angry as all hell, but he was more angry at his brother's comment. It's with the assurance that he won't hurt his brother, that Hank walks back to the kitchen.

Hank makes his steps slow and deliberate, catching the gaze of his little brother and holding on to it. He's not sure what his face or eyes are reading, but he hopes it's apathy at it's best, not fury at it's worst. And Evan – Christ. He's just standing there, all nervous twitches and bobbing Adam's apple, apprehension and determination etched into his face like a hardened war hero returning to the battle field.

"Hank," Evan's tongue darts out to lick his lips, another nervous habit. "I didn't – "

But Hank waves his hand – more like the flick of a few fingers than anything, really, but it's enough to get the message across. _Shut. Up._

And there standing right in front of each other, nearly nose to nose. It's with a sort of sardonic amusement that Hank realizes his _younger_ brother being about an inch taller than himself, and looking more and more like their mother each day. He can smell the cigarettes on his brother's breath, but that's something they'll argue about later. Now is not the time.

"Do you remember, yet?" Hank asks, crossing his arms and tilting his head back just slightly enough to catch his brother's full reaction.

There's a moment where Evan's pupils dilate, nostrils flaring just the slightest, but it's as gone as fast as it came. In some part of the CFO's psyche, he fucking remembers.

"No?" Hank questions again, nodding to himself this time; it was meant to be a rhetorical question.

Evan inhales sharply, blinking frantically for a moment or two, trying to figure out just what the hell happened. "What does that have to do...?"

Hank's voice is icy and crisp, clean and disassociated. Clinical, even.

"At some point, you're going to have to realize that I won't."

Evan get's it now, or at least he thinks he does. Hank won't forgive Eddie for walking out on them.

"You can't just act apathetically toward him every time you see him, Hank. Like it or not, that's _our father!_"

"Get out of that fucking fantasy you live in!" And even though Hank screams those words, there's still an air of lacking in them. He watches with narrowed, brown eyes as Evan visibly flinches at the volume of his words, and takes a step back.

"At some point, you're going to have to accept what happened," and he's walking away before he even realizes it himself.

"Disconnect the dots, Evan."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Let it be known that ScottIsInBolivia is not dead. Neither of us are. It should also be known that, here at ScottIsInBolivia, we don't abandon stories. Ever.**

**Alyx's spleen decided that it had, had enough of Mono, and ruptured. The reason Bite Your Lip And Fake It hasn't been updated is because he's either too doped up on pain meds to focus, or crippled with pain to manage the will to use his hands and type. The guy hates pain medications, but when he's forced to take them, he get's loopy. This is a collaborative story; I can't just write the chapters myself (I refuse to) and I can't just ask him to give me an idea train of what he wants in the chapters. So let's leave it at that.**

**Gotta admit that I'm kind of disappointed with the way the majority of you counted us as quitters. :|**

**Bite Your Lip And Fake It will be updated within the next two weeks, if not this week. **

**We're all big kids here, so bite your lip, suck it up, and wait out the next few days or so.**


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a few weeks since Evan's argument with Hank. Two weeks since all the awkward, forced chit chat turned into real conversations. Those times don't mean a damned thing, though, compared to the most recent development. Yeah, seriously arguing with his older brother is a rare occurrence, so, in retrospect, it does mean _something_, but not as monumental as Evan's birthday, when he learned that his brother and father buried the hatchet, so to speak.

It surprised Evan – damn near made the CFO think he started drinking before he arrived at his party – after all the awkward silences and tension-filled stare-downs and the avoidance of certain topics, he was so sure that Eddie and Hank weren't going to be able to be in the same room without a bomb going off, let alone make peace.

So, all things considered, Evan thought he should be thankful. He had a loving brother, an actual father now, a decent job, a girl that he more than just _liked_, an odd group of friends; yeah, everything was finally running smoothly in the young CFO's life. Except, well, Evan couldn't help but feel that something was just generally wrong.

Things in his life weren't supposed to be doing just dandy, at least, not simultaneously; something, it didn't matter, always had to be muffing up his grand scheme of things. Which is why standing in the kitchen of Boris' guest house, hovering over the stove and checking the food he was cooking for his brother and father, who were sitting and conversing amicably, made Evan's toes cringe.

"Which reminds me; Evan, I didn't know you could cook," Eddie exclaimed, tossing a hand in the air and doing some sort of weird, wave-like thing with it.

Evan jumped, a little startled to be ripped out of his thoughts so quickly. He looked over his shoulder, offering a half-shrug at both his father and Hank, who happened to be failing at hiding a smirk behind his glass.

"Oh, yeah. Evan's definitely the more domesticated of us," Hank said, and he meant it. Evan could and would cook and clean...and even do the occasional laundry batch when Hank was feeling particularly lazy.

Turning down the heat to a low flame on the stove, Evan stood back from the all the bubbling pots and pans, stepping to lean against the island bar, grab a glass of wine and join the conversation.

It was when his youngest son slouched against the counter, glass poised just to his lips, that Eddie realized how much Evan looked like his mother. True, he had the same build as her; long limbs and all lean muscle, no sign of any extra weight – a swimmer's body, now that he thought about it. It was Evan's face, though, that really made Eddie's gut ache. The youngest Lawson had the same full lips – same lopsided smirk that his mother had when anything particularly mischievous was about to occur, as if they were in on the joke. How his wide, oceanic blue eyes would change their tone or even seemingly sparkle when filled with some emotion. Even Evan's hair, albeit significantly shorter, matched his mother's.

Eddie thought it was kind of ironic, really, that the one son who loved him to bits looked like his wife, whereas the one who wanted nothing to do with him looked just like he did when younger.

"That's something your mother would be thankful and proud of, boys," Eddie announced to no one in particular, caught in his mind's comparison.

There was this weird, mutual silence that seemed to pass between the three Lawsons, all thrown into their own thoughts of Mrs. Lawson and how true that statement was.

Evan threw his head back and downed his wine, gently setting the glass down and deciding to end the elephant in the room's tirade.

"Yeah, well, have you noticed the way Hank's clothes are thrown around here? I'd be scared for the guy if he lived on his own."

Eddie managed a small laugh, quickly catching on to the way Hank mock-gasped. "One would think that with your physician life style, you'd be a neat freak."

"Yeah right," Evan snorted, turning back to the stove. "Hank's a slob."

"I am _not_ a slob," Hank said indignantly. "I just like to be a little lax in my home after having such a sterilized day."

Evan remained silent for all of two minutes before he repeated, "Slob."

Hank balled up a napkin and thew it at his brother's backside.

"Hey, quit that! It's not like you're going to be picking it up."

Eddie had tried to stifle his laughter during his sons' ribbing, really, he did, but when Hank stuck his tongue out at Evan, he couldn't help but chuckle out loud. "Good to know you boys haven't let growing up bring your sense of humor down."

"Growing up?" Hank asked.

"Yeah, what's that?" Evan called over his shoulder, turning back to the cooking food.

"You do know I live with Evan, right?"

"Sticking out his tongue is about as adult as Hank gets," Evan retorted, sticking his own tongue out as he reached for an oven mitt.

"Not to break into this wonderful show, but is that food almost done? I'm starving," Eddie questioned, rubbing his stomach to somehow demonstrate just how hungry he was.

"Yeah," Hank agreed, nodding his head slightly. "Feed me, please."

"Hey," Evan clucked, checking the contents on the stove before turning their dials to OFF, "Greatness takes time."

"You know I love your cooking, bro, but if I knew greatness took this much time, I would've just ordered out."

"Pfft. Please! Like you could resist my cooking." Evan bent slightly at the waist, opening the oven hatch with one hand and gripping one of the sauce pans in the other. "But, you know, I mean, if you'd prefer crappy food, just say so. I'm sure dad and I won't mind if you ordered Chinese."

Eddie watched as his youngest son used his mitt-covered hand to pull the oven's grill sheet out, careful to not disturb the the contents in the glass dish. He swore he heard Hank's stomach growl when Evan poured whatever it was in the sauce pan into the glass dish, mindful to drench the dish's contents evenly, and he couldn't blame him; whatever it was that Evan was cooking smelled delicious.

When Evan finished emptying the sauce pan, he pushed the grill sheet back into the oven and closed its hatch, cranking the heat up just twenty degrees higher.

"Could you pour me some more wine in my glass, and then hand the bottle?" Evan asked over his shoulder, dumping the sauce pan into the nearby sink and turning on the faucet, allowing the water to fill and soak the pan before adding dish soap.

He ducked left, stopping once he reached the counter next to the kitchen's doorway, shoving his iPod into its speaker docs and setting it to play random songs on a medium volume.

"What exactly are you making?" Eddie asked, meeting Evan half way back to the stove and handing him the still pretty full bottle of wine.

Evan nodded a thanks as he bopped along to the music, loving the way the Beatles could completely control his body. "It's a secret," he winked at his dad before shooing him away from the stove. "And I swear, if you looked into one of the dishes while my back was turned, no one's eating."

Eddie's eyes widened and he looked towards his eldest son, silently asking if Evan was serious.

Hank groaned over Evan's glass, filling it nearly to the top. "Come on, Ev. No one looked. We're starving – hurry it up."

Evan shot a glare to his brother as he began to pour a set amount of wine into the largest pan on the stove, loving the way it sizzled when met with the still cooling metal.

"You wanna help?" He asked Hank, turning the oven off and pulling the hatch open again.

"Is that supposed to be rhetorical?"

"Just make sure the table is cleared in the middle, and place down that big, white plate-like thingy, may?" Evan purposely made it sound as if he were talking to a seven year old, nodding his head in the direction of the dish he was talking about.

"Anything I can do?" Eddie asked, feeling sort of odd as he watched his sons do all of the work.

"Nah, we got it covered," Evan called over his shoulder, pulling the oven's grill-sheet out and taking the dish off of it, setting it down onto the free space on the stove. "Just stay clear of here and make sure Hank is actually cleaning off a spot."

"Oh, ha ha, Evan," Hank huffed sarcastically.

Evan chose to ignore him, because, really, their brotherly banter could go on for hours if they allowed it, and honestly, Evan was pretty hungry himself. So he fought against his natural reactions to give a retort, and began pouring and dumping the various pots and pans contents into the main glass dish, occasionally stirring or adding food into certain spots.

As he finished, Evan thought about grabbing a spatula and a wooden spoon to help doll out the food, but then remembered that Hank had covered that practically the second Evan had started on cooking.

"Mkay, alright. Sit down, close your eyes, open your mouths, and you shall receive," Evan joked to his brother and father, carefully lifting the glass dish with one hand and proceeding to walk toward the table.

With all the various foods added into the glass dish, it weighed Evan's arm down dangerously. There was a brief flicker in his mind where he thought that he definitely wasn't muscly enough to manage the dish all the way to the table with only one hand. Truth was, Evan was lazy and famished – didn't feel like hunting down another oven mitt, or folding a paper towel into fours to handle the very hot, very heavy glass dish.

"I was serious about you guys closing your eyes," Evan huffed out, caught between trying to hurry and set the dish down and trying to not spill any of it's stuffed contents. "Close them. Right now."

Hank sighed, but complied to his brother's demands, making sure Eddie did the same. "Because this isn't excessive at all, right?"

Evan refuses to admit it to himself, but he nearly laughed hysterically when he managed to bring the dish to the center piece on the table without dropping or spilling a single drop of sauce or piece of food. He has the one gloved hand anchoring the bottom of the glass dish, tilting just slightly to allow gravity to take it's course and set the dish down itself, while the other hand hovers ever so closely. And he knows it's stupid and dangerous, and yeah, if something does go wrong, his quick reflexes _will_ make his bare hand shoot for the piping hot dish, but, well, better safe than sorry, right?

"You did good, Evan. Whatever it is, it smells delicious," Eddie tells his son, inhaling more of the tantalizing scent of whatever the hell is son cooked. He doesn't notice when his two sons tense up. Doesn't notice how Hank's eyes snap open wide, shooting anxious glances between the two men. Doesn't notice the way Evan's hole frame locks up before it jerks back, like a recoil meeting a full body twitch. Eddie does notice, however, the sound of the glass dish smacking onto the center glass plate.

Evan's body reacts without any registered note of movement, his free, un-gloved hand shooting forward to catch the still very hot dish before it shatters the glass plate underneath it. He doesn't catch it in time, at least, not all of it. His hand gets caught palm up, stuck between the hot glass and cool plate.

At first, Evan's not sure just what the hell happened. He doesn't know what his dad said to make his body react the way it did. But almost as soon as his hand touches the hot glass and the pain registers into his mind, it's like someone decided to sync his eyes with a Tivo and, suddenly, he's remembering things from years and years ago. Eddie Lawson sneaking into his childhood room, touching him, talking to him, saying things that no parent should say, the fucked up look in his eyes even as his son cried, the pain, the sting of it all, the embarrassment, Hank standing outside the doorway, asking if things were okay. He remembers his brother, years later, asking if he remembered anything, and his denying everything. Evan remembers getting pissed at Hank for questioning him about something he knew didn't happen, but now, well, he's not so sure.

Evan swears he can feel his heart suicide dive the wrong way into his throat, and let's out this weird half whimper, half choking noise.

The two older Lawson men freeze for half a heart beat, one stunned by his father's words, one startled at the noise, both freaked the fuck out by Evan's reaction, and then it's like a switch goes off. Hank stands so abruptly, his chair goes flying backwards, and he's reaching for the dish, because who gives a shit if it's hot? Evan's just standing there, getting his skin burned off. Eddie moves as fast as he can to the sink, grabbing a glass and filling it with as much ice cold water as he can.

It's not the pain of the very, _very_ hot glass dish that has Hank moving faster than normal, but the way Evan's eyes are wide and glazed over – the way his chest is heaving in sharp, quick movements – how he's not reacting at all. By all logical accounts, his little brother should be screaming and pulling his hand away as quick as possible. This is not normal.

"Eddie, give me that water and go into those cupboards over there, and get me the first aid kit," Hank practically shouts, damned near hysterical.

He can usually keep a clear head when _anyone_ is injured...except for his brother. When Hank manages to slide the glass dish off of Evan's hand, he almost wants to scream; the skin on his brother's palm has been damned near melted off, most of it now is just pink, sticky, bloody bits of flesh. He's hoping to Christ that some of the darker bits on Evan's palm isn't muscle tissue.

"Oh my god," Eddie breathes out as he catches sight of his youngest son's hand.

"Dad," Hank snaps, looking at the man over his shoulder. "Water and first aid kit. Come on!"

Eddie gives a quick, sharp nod, handing Hank the glass of water before searching for the first aid kit.

Hank gently grabs Evan's damaged hand by the wrist with his left hand, and holds the glass of water with his right. Depending on how much skin and tissue was burned away, this is going to hurt... badly.

"Evan," Hank calls, trying to get his brother's attention without startling the man. "Evan, c'mon bro, look at me." He checks Evan's pulse while his hand is on his wrist, mentally freaking out at the fast pace it's going. "Evan, you need to focus on me. I'm going to have to clean your hand a little bit with this water; it is going to hurt. After that, I'm going to wrap it in gauze, and we're going to head to the emergency room, alright?"

Hank pauses for a few seconds, hoping that Evan will pop back from wherever the hell he is in his head, but when he receives no acknowledgment, he tilts the glass, allowing the water to fall freely onto the burned hand. There's a twitch, a flex of Evan's fingers, but that's it as far as reactions go. By all accounts, he should be yelling, screaming, crying – hell, anything to indicate pain or discomfort. But it's like his brother's not there, like he's gone mute, and showing signs of little to no reaction to pain stimulus can mean a plethora of things. Hank's just mostly concerned for shock and possible panic attacks.

It happens before Hank really has the time to figure out just what the hell is going on, he's too busy carefully pouring the water all over his brother's injured hand. There's a twitch-like flex coming from Evan's fingers again, and some weird, half sigh, half shudder that makes his chest spasm, but soon, the burned hand is wrenched away. A good portion of water sloshes onto the kitchen floor before Hank looks up, too stunned to register the quick movements just yet, and when he does, he's met with the awful feel of burned, wet skin making vicious contact with his left cheek. Hank's head whips to the right, brown eyes still wide with disbelief, mouth agape. And Evan..._holy hell._

Contradictory as it sounds, that's exactly what Evan looks like – what he's emitting; pure, holy hell. He's shaking, and jittery. No longer are those baby blues wide and starry, but narrowed and filled with muddy hate. And just his entire presence, really, in its entirety is _scary_ and threatening, like he's thinking, what the fuck are you doing, who are you, don't touch me; stranger!

Evan doesn't really come back to himself until his hand sparks to life with a new found fury, raging and burning and stinging, it seems, all the way into the marrow of his bones when he smacks his brother. It hurts so fucking badly that Evan thinks he might just vomit. His stomach clenches, arms and fingers spasmodic. Evan wants to scream, so he does; not just any normal yelp of pain, but something hollow and lung-filling, a wail that makes Hank forget about his stinging cheek, and Eddie come rushing back, first aid kit in hand. It makes his throat burn, but no where near as bad as his hand.

Hank springs forward, taking the few baby steps needed to reach his pained, baby brother, hands out and waiting to make the pain go away. Before he can get too close, though, Evan turns toward him, his body snapping quickly into a defensive stance.

"Stay. The fuck. Away from me," he says, sounding more like a growl between clenched teeth than an angry demand.

"Ev," Hank begins, holding his hands up in an indifferent, placating pose. "Please, you're hurt."

But Evan's not listening, he's too busy cradling his damaged hand tightly to his chest, carefully backing away towards the main hallway that will eventually lead to the door. He wants out, and fast.

"Evan!" And this time it's his dad, Eddie, sounding terrified and confused, and he steps forward, nearly in front of Hank.

"Dad-" Hank's trying to pull him back – trying to casually hint to the older Lawson that now is not the best time for this, please, god, don't!, or we'll never see him again.

"No!" Evan shrieks, eyes widening to comical heights, pupils dilating and breath coming out in spurts. "Get the fuck away! Stay away. HENRY!" And, he thinks, he's not really asking for all that much; stay way you fucking pedophile, and everything will be fine, and, Hank!, why aren't you helping, just keep him away from me, please!

"Evan," Hank admonishes, trying his best to sound calm. He's tugging on Eddie's shirt, pulling him back until he's at a safe distance away from Evan, because, well, at this point, it seems like he'd be willing to leap across the expanse of the few feet they have between them, and just completely Krav Maga their father to shreds. "Evan, what the hell's the matter with you?"

"Me?" And Evan's blue eyes are whipping from his older brother to his... father, double and triple checking their eyes and body stances for any possible threats. He's scared, and he has every right to be at this point. "What the hell do you mean, ME?"

"You! The way you're acting. What the hell's gotten into you?"

"Our fucking pedophile father! When I was, what, eight? Yeah, he got into me!"

And, well, yeah, there's something to be said for this dry, sort of inappropriate humor – a rape joke, okay! – but Evan doesn't really care. It's how his mind works, even in situations like these.

He kind of likes the weird flinch/grimace thing Hank does. Oh, and he definitely loves the way his father, Eddie, looks absolutely stricken, surprised even. Yes, he thinks, understand this now, bastard. How does it feel?

_Not nearly as bad as I do...probably _did_, too._


End file.
